


Time is the Best Disguise

by Elvichar



Series: A Bunny Abroad [1]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Stingaree - E.W. Hornung
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvichar/pseuds/Elvichar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bunny Manders has finished telling the tale of his time with Raffles, the amateur cracksman, but his life is far from over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Legacy

I had written of Raffles for the last time, and did not wish to revisit the past again. The old days are probably best left where they were, and I, still too fat at 40 and my eyesight failing, was not the same man I had once been.

The tales I told of my erstwhile adventures had proved popular and I had no need to turn to the crimes of my youth to pay for my meals, neither had I any cause to fabricate any new ones.

There were a few omissions in my tales, as well as quite a few stretches of the truth. As a male historian I had to exercise caution on may occasions, though I can't help but think, in retrospect, I all too often gave the game away somewhat.

Raffles was gone and I was lonely. Despite my frequent visits to the many and varied Turkish baths of London, there were very few times where I had opportunity to do very much about that particular problem.

I did not lack for companionship of a more social and less carnal kind. My old friend, nameless still so as to not cause her any undue embarrassment, often entertained me, providing tea and cakes and sympathy. We were both old maids now, she and I. Respectable, and to all outward appearances, beyond any of the silly fripperies of youth.

It was not enough for me. I could not revisit the follies of my earlier years nor did I have any desire to do so. She had once been dear to me, but I was all too willing to give her up to lead a life of crime with Raffles – the only person I can truly say I ever loved.

At thirty I had caught sight of myself in the mirror and reflected on how little effect my sins had had on my looks. I seemed a callow, dare I say, handsome youth less than a decade ago. That was before the injury to my leg that has made me permanently lame, before I found comfort in far too many cakes of sympathy. Before Raffles left me alone.

I said I no longer lack for money; while this is true, London life was a drain on the pocket.

One winter's day at the tail end of 1909 I received a letter. I had no close relatives, but the letter claimed I had an uncle, long lost of course, who had recently died in Australia. He had left me a farm and an annuity.

I was happy with the annuity, though I could not see myself as a farmer. Sheep rather scare me.

Even so, my relative's last will and testament made it a necessity to visit that vast land to see my estate. I was not allowed to sell until I had spent at least six months living in the place and making sure the farm workers were well provided for should I decide to dispense with my inheritance.

There was, to my mind, no doubt that I would get shot of it as soon as possible, but a long holiday away from London and all its memories might be just what the doctor ordered. Not that I usually listened to my physician.

\---

Australia was big. I knew that just from looking on an atlas, but until I visited the place I had no idea just how big. I landed in Sydney early in 1910. The day was warmer than I had expected after leaving the snows and freezing fog of my native land just after Christmas. It took over a week after landing to get to my farm.  
By the time I arrived I must have lost almost a stone in weight – and while that still did not make me even close to slender it made a surprising difference in my countenance. Whereas some chaps looked drawn and haggard after a loss in weight I looked well on it. Younger, even.

I kept to the shade while travelling as my complexion is not really the sort that takes well to extremes in temperature but I still caught the sun a little, giving me the appearance of a glow of good health that had long ago fled my London-face.

I was almost the Bunny of old rather than old duffer Manders that I had since become.

 

\----

At the farm I was greeted by a strange old woman with eyes like bits of flint. I say greeted, but the curt nod and slight sneer was not particularly welcoming.

I tried to use the old Manders charm on her, but it was never really effective on flinty eyed crones, least of all now.

“Is there a farm manager?” I asked her “Or someone else I can ask about the lay of the land?”

“Manager?” She lifted a beetle brow at this.

“Yes, I was told I should deal with the farm workers and find out how best to proceed. I don't think I am going to be much use at this farming lark! I suppose you know everything about the place, you must have worked here for quite some time I imagine.” I said brightly, hoping for some gleam of sympathy in the old woman's face.

“Well, I don't know about that,” she said. “I was told to provide for the new owner, but I never met the old. Don't know much about this place at all, as a matter of fact.”

She must have noted some note of confusion in my all too open face.

“Far as I know this place has been deserted for years,” she added.

I sat down and quietly drank the tea she had made. “Oh.” Was the extend of my reaction.

“Only person I have had any contact with is the solicitor fella. He employed me a few weeks ago and made sure everything was clean and tidy and ready for your arrival.” The old woman nodded again.

“Oh. Can I talk to this solicitor?” I asked, as calmly as I could. He must know the particulars.

“He's in the next town over, far as I know. It's only 100 miles away, so you should be able to find him.” She said. “Best not set off tonight though – there are bandits in the area. Don't want to get caught up in anything nasty.”

“No, indeed!” I admitted. Raffles' old tale of his first foray into the life of a cracksman had alerted me to the dangers alive in the Australian Bush. I had no desire to experience these dangers first hand. Excitement was not something I was used to these days.

“That Stingaree is on the loose around these parts, I hear!” She said warningly.

“Is that some kind of wild animal?” I asked, aghast.

The old woman chuckled. “Well, in a way.” And with that she left me to my own thoughts and memories.


	2. Quixotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bunny is left alone

I had an uneasy night, wondering what a Stingaree could be and whether it was likely to seek shelter indoors. It seemed a long way from the sea so I supposed whatever it was it could survive on land.

I also wondered about my housekeeper. I had never met her before yesterday but there was something about her that reminded me of something.

I woke up at seven and decided to seek out the lady and enquire about breakfast. She wasn't anywhere to be found.

I managed to prepare something for myself; years as a bachelor had accustomed me to self-sufficiency.

Loneliness is something with which I am often afflicted, and here I was far away from everywhere and seemingly without any human companionship. I could not think where the housekeepr had gone. It also occurred to me that I had not seen any evidence of any of the farm workers I was obliged to look after under the terms of my uncle's legacy.

Everything had happened so quickly. The letter had come just before Christmas and I had been instructed to travel to Australia at my earliest convenience.

I began to imagine this was some sort of elaborate trap. Inspector Mackenzie had died in '06 so it certainly wasn't any of his doing, but it was still possible someone had set out to punish me. Despite spending nearly two years in prison there were various crimes that did not emerge at my trial and which I have never detailed in print. Nor would I, discretion being the better part of, etc. Perhaps there was someone who had decided that I, being the only surviving perpetrator, should face consequences.

Though the punishment of living alone all these years was consequence enough.

While searching for breakfast I chanced upon a scrapbook full of cuttings. It was from these I discovered who Stingaree was: for he was a person rather than a creature.

It seemed the man had blazed a trail across the bush for the past decade. Most of the newspaper stories were written with the sort of breathless admiration to which I could relate, all too readily. There is something about a dashing criminal type that, it seems, turns many a young writer's head.

The papers said "gentleman bandit" Stingaree “never killed a man” or at least never one who did not deserve it; often “thwarted the authorities” and was sometimes accompanied by a faithful, though rather ill defined rogue called Howie. He was an Englishman by all accounts and on more than one occasion while holding up a fellow ex-patriot stopped mid-crime to enquire how things were back in the old country.

One of the earliest cuttings told a rather unlikely tale whereby Stingaree held up an entire concert hall just so a maiden could sing in front of a great impresario. At least I would say it was unlikely, but I had very recently seen the maiden, a Miss Hilda Bouvier, perform on a very grand stage in Sydney. I had no idea at the time that she owed her career to anything other than her [very good] voice.

These were all very jolly tales, if a bit far-fetched, but about half way through the book I was suddenly struck by a photograph of the feted bandit. The cutting said the picture was from 1903 and showed a man with a ridiculousy ornate moustache, a monocle and wavy black hair.

It was an impossible picture.

***

I could do very little but drink my tea and contemplate. Whoever had made the scrapbook evidently wanted me to find it.

The most reasonable explanation would have been that it was compiled by my late uncle, though I could see now that there might never have been any such person.

I was startled out of my reverie by the sound of the door slamming. Seconds later my housekeeper entered carrying a pile of logs.

“Morning, sir,” she said cautiously. “I've been out to the woodshed. You're running low – I should send out for some more fire wood soon if I were you.”

I eyed her with some suspicion. I realised now that one of my theories was certainly not the correct one. She was clearly just a strange old lady.

“I have been looking at this scrapbook,” I said, as brightly as a could given what was dawning on me. “You said this Stingaree was 'on the loose' last night – what exactly did you mean by that?”

“Oh, he escaped!” She said gleefully. “He outwitted all of them and now nobody knows where he is!”

“Escaped? Does that mean that he was captured at some point?” The date of the last of the cuttings was April 1909, some nine months before.

“Oh, yes. Back last May I'd say. He was caught doing a good deed!” She went on to tell me about his last great escapade, wherein he had tried to show a young lad who worshipped him and his exploits just what he'd be letting himself in for if he followed in Stingaree's footsteps. “Funny thing is though, he never let on what he was really called back in the old country! Even after getting put away he kept quiet. He could be anywhere now, I reckon. Probably gone off to South America or California by now. I hope so!”

“Is this your cuttings book?” I asked, not unreasonably given the level of joy evident in the old lady's relation of the tale.

She glanced down at the book. “Never seen it before!” She said. “Like I said, I only came here last week. Whoever it was as made these cuttings stopped before Stingaree got put away, by the looks of it. Maybe it was old Stingaree himself that made it!” She laughed at her own cleverness. “Maybe this farm is actually Stingaree's hideout!”

I must have turned even paler than I am usually because the old lady suddenly looked very concerned on my behalf.

“Oh, bless you, sir! I didn't mean to put the heebie-jeebies into you – I was only jesting. Like I said,even if he was here he'd be long gone by now!”

That was what I feared the most!


	3. Windows of the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bunny wonders what to do now.

The last time I saw Raffles he was sporting a head of dyed ginger hair; last time I saw Raffles I saw the glow go out of his eye.

Of course at the time I was on the verge of unconsciousness, having just been shot in the leg.

His body had never been recovered, but I know for sure Raffles had been shot. At least that is how it seemed at the time.

I had been rescued from the field by the rest of my regiment and it took quite a few weeks before my delirium passed.

My sorrow has never left me, and every time I feel a twinge in my leg I am reminded of everything I lost that day.

That was nothing to the twinge I know felt when I thought about what might have come to pass after that day.

It was not as though I had not mourned for my friend before, only to discover after the fact that he was still alive. On both occasions I felt only joy that he was still alive. Even after spending all that time in prison I could forgive him for what he had put me through – but that was long ago.

If he had played the same game a third time I had to ask myself what sort of man was I who could put up with this? Did Raffles ever spare a thought for me, and all the loyalty and devotion I showed to him above and beyond the call?

I knew the answer only too well. If Raffles were still alive, in whatever state he appeared to me I would not only forgive him but welcome him with open arms.

The ten years without him would peel away and I would be the same old Bunny again. I vowed if my suspicions were correct – as I had no doubt they were now – and if he and I were ever to meet once more, I would hide from him how much damage he had wrought upon my person. I would show him just how much pluck I still had.

My old new housekeeper, Mrs Howard was her name, was busying herself with baking.

I was still perusing the scrapbook, hoping for some clue as to what I should do next.

Perhaps there was a message hidden in the newsprint. Try as I might I could not spot a thing, but that did not mean it was not there.

The solicitor in the next town might have more information. I had almost forgotten about the driver who had brought me here and was ensconsed in lodgings in the stables. I had barely glanced at him during the entire week-long trip here and now I was sorry for that.

My lack of companionship in this my hour of greatest need, was causing me some distress. I realised that in this new world my old prejudices about just who and who was not of my class would have to fall by the wayside. It was ridiculous after all, I had spent so much time with so many denizens and unfortunates and yet I still did not look respectable working folk in the eye or pay servants the least heed, in the main.

If Raffles were here he would give me a piece of his mind – he who would treat all men and women with the same equal degree of respect and contempt. He was always far more a man of the people than I.

I ventured to the stables to wish good morning to the driver and let him know that I would be in need of his service that afternoon. I would have to make a night of it in the town, perhaps stay at an inn, if there were any inns.

“Hello!” I offered.

The driver, busy brushing the handsome grey horse that had pulled the wagon, did not look up at me, but merely gave me a snort of acknowledgement.

I let him know of my plans for later. “Mrs Howard is making food if you want to join us in the house,” I said. “I would be glad to have your companionship, and I am sorry I didn't ask you in last night! I should have thought.”

“Yes, you should!” He said, ungraciously.

“Well, perhaps I should,” I admitted, wishing I had not got off on the wrong foot with this man, my only means of escaping from this dreadful place for any length of time

The man turned to me, slowly and took off his hat to reveal a shaven head, replete with greyish stubble, though slightly receding at the temples. I looked him in the eye for the first time since we had met and I gasped.

“Sight for sore eyes, aren't I, Bunny!” Was the rueful response.


	4. Unmasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is nothing for a master of disguise.

I couldn’t help but gasp. I suppose a cleverer man than I might have expected this, but even though I had seen the cuttings, more than suspected, I had still disbelieved my own eyes.

He was here. In front of me. Much the worse for wear but undoubtedly the same man. Steel grey, even white, hair cut close to his head. Gaunt and tired, but reminding me of the time he returned from his “rest cure” in Carlsbad.

“I am going to need your help, Bunny old chap,” he said after an inordinately long pause as he waited for me to take in the scene in its entirety. “And it’s very likely going to come with some danger.”

“Raffles?” I said, weakly, reaching out to touch the arm of his worn jacket. “Why ever did you let me think you were dead?”

His face fell, if that was possible. “Oh, Bunny. You don’t mean to say you thought I really had died, you silly rabbit?”

Of course I had. It had sometimes occurred to me to wonder if it had all been an elaborate plan to escape from the authorities, but years passed and that hope faded. He had always sent for me, eventually. Although, I supposed, he had. A decade was a long time to wait for news.

Lost in action.

It was always less than final but I assumed the worst - how could I not? Sleight of hand was always Raffles’ strong suit, though. Nobody should trust the evidence of their eyes around the man.

Of course I would forgive him; he had always had that affect on me. I could not trust myself to remain sensible and reasonable around him. He led me wayward, and I would never have had it any other way.

I took a deep breath and composed myself. “We will need to find a way for you to escape. They are still looking for you, you know.” I surprise myself with my practicality sometimes, but I evidently surprised Raffles more.

He chuckled with relief, “Oh, Bunny. I’m so glad you’re not upset with me!”

I was, in point of fact, extremely upset, but I have always prided myself on my ability to keep my true emotions from my friend. To him I was always a bumbler and a fool, I suspect. He had oft assured me that if I was an idiot he would not have abided my company, but I was never sure of his sincerity. Besides a mask of innocence always served me well, and was I think the reason Raffles had put up with me for so long.

Was I always just a foil?

“Does Mrs Howard know who you are?” I asked. Worried that the housekeeper might be the fly in the ointment.

“I should say so. Though I don’t think she knows I am back.” A strange smile crossed Raffles lips. I was suddenly very afraid that Raffles had taken up with the old woman. It was a horrifying thought. I was not jealous exactly, but there were certainly elements that some people might call jealousy in my reaction to the idea.

These thoughts must have been all too obvious on my face. “No!” Raffles said, his eyebrows shooting up. “She is the mother of a very dear friend.”

I do not think I was any more reassured by that. Nothing good has ever come from Raffles’ Very Dear Friends.

“And where is this dear friend?” I asked, casually.

Raffles looked sorrowful at this. “I am very much afraid that he was killed in the crossfire,” he said. “Unless Mrs Howard has heard differently.”

I did not care one whit whether the friend was alive or dead. A thought occurred to me. “You are my ‘long lost uncle’ I suppose. This is all a bit reminiscent of Great Expectations.”

“Well, I am not going to disguise myself in a mouldering wedding dress to escape capture, if that’s where you are heading with that analogy!” Raffles said.

It was not, but the thought of Raffles in a wedding dress came unbidden to my mind anyway.

“Although...” Raffles looked pensive. “Do you remember that time we hid out in that old buffer’s house in Campden Hill?”

“Oh.” I did. Raffles had complimented me on my disguise as we were running away from the house. I had a horrible intimation of what he was going to ask me next.

“You were rather convincing,” He said. I felt terribly uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“I am very much older and fatter now!” I said, not unreasonably.

“It is becoming on you,” Raffles said, though not denying the truth of my words. “Think on it! An elderly gentleman and his pretty younger wife. Setting sail for Europe. Or the Americas! Nobody would question us on a long voyage. We could pull it off, I think. Rarely leave our cabin. Or at least I could stay inside. Too ill to socialise with fellow passengers.”

“And what would my excuse be, for not mixing!” I said, dangerously close to hysteria. I fear my psychology was becoming all too apparent.

“Are you afraid it won't work?” Raffles seemed disappointed in my reaction, though surely he could not have believed I would have gone along with such an ill-conceived plan. All I could think of was the scandal that would surround our inevitable discovery.

I had no doubt in Raffles’ ability to pull off his disguise, he had often fooled me. Though, perhaps that was not so hard a task. It was my part in this folly that was the worry.


	5. Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raffles always seems to get the upper hand.

The first time I laid eyes on Raffles I was smitten. I can admit that now, knowing how unlikely it is that I will be tempted to publish these papers while I still live.

I was 12 years old and he seemed to me then a god amongst men. He was of course only just a man, barely 16, but to me he represented everything good and pure and noble.

When I sought him again after the loss of my fortune I still had the idea of him in my head. Wherever he was I wanted to follow.

Truth be told I never altered my opinion. Even now I knew I would do whatever he asked of me.

We adjourned to the house. Mrs Howard was preparing a meal and when she saw Raffles she gasped slightly, before recovering herself quickly and smiling her welcome.

“I suppose you'll want feeding?” She said as though nothing had ever been amiss.

“Ah, Mrs Howard, you always say the right thing!” Raffles said gleefully, sitting down at the large wooden table.

“He's fine,” Mrs Howard said gravely, but reassuringly, as though Raffles would know exactly what she meant. “A little shaken, but they didn't get him. Don't worry on his account.”

Raffles nodded and said no more on that particular subject. “I might need your help, Mrs Howard, I don't suppose you have any skills as a seamstress?”

Mrs Howard smiled. “You know well enough that I was trained in it before I married Mr Howard.”

“Oh, Raffles, no, this still?” I had assumed his scheme had already been rejected but it seemed I was mistaken.

“Raffles?” Mrs Howard knitted her brow. “Who is Raffles when he's at home?”

“Old nickname, Mrs H,” Raffles explained smoothly. “So, I will need your help in making a disguise. Not just a disguise but an entire wardrobe of fine clothes.”

“Well, I am not trained as a tailor, I can't be making you any suits!” Mrs Howard tutted.

“No matter - I was thinking more clothes fit for a fine lady,” Raffles said.

Mrs Howard guffawed. “I don't think you can pull that off, Artie.” She looked over at me, quickly and the dawn of understanding lit up her face. “Oh. Your friend here. Yes, I can see how that might work!”

I was not sure whether to be offended or flattered. In my wordless reaction I must have looked somewhat like a landed carp gasping for water.

Raffles clapped me on the back, rather gleefully. “Bunny, dear sweet Bunny, you will look splendid! I rather fancy you will be the guest of honour at the Captain's table every night!”

“Do you really mean to go through with this?” I said, sotto voce.

“Certainly. How is your Italian by the way? I think I might be an elderly Italian nobleman travelling to the new world in search of one last adventure before I shuffle of this mortal coil, and all that. “

“I speak no language but English,” I said, maybe a little pompously.

“Pity. Still, no reason an Italian nobleman can't marry a blushing English rose. In fact I think, with your colouring, that is a far wiser plan.”

“Raffles, stop!” I said severely. “You haven't even told me why you are so desperate to travel so far afield. I have only just got here and by the conditions set out in the bequest – which I assume you yourself wrote – I am obliged to stay here for at least six months.”

“Yes but I wrote that before I was captured. I had already decided I wanted you to join me, and it seemed like the best plan. I wanted to make sure everything was in your name, just in case anything dreadful happened to me. It happened before I had a chance to properly arrange everything. It was all I could do to send word to my solicitor to contact you. I hoped I could escape – but I wanted you to have it all even if I didn't.”

I still did not really understand any of this. “You mean I actually do own this property?” I had assumed that was all part of the rouse.

“All this and everything I owned. You are a very rich man, Bunny. I suppose I couldn't blame you if you decided you were going to stay here. All alone in the middle of the bush.”

“Well of course I can't do that!” I said, exasperated. I couldn't possibly stay here so far away from civilisation and 500 miles or more from the nearest Turkish bath.

“Good, then it's settled. You will come with me!” Raffles said joyfully.

It had been a fait accompli.


End file.
